


home is at the table

by mulkki



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, the fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulkki/pseuds/mulkki
Summary: Omi, and the rest of Autumn(part of the #secretA32017 exchange on twitter)





	home is at the table

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the A3! Secret Santa exchange on twitter. Merry Christmas to Clem (@puddingly)!

**_super-ultra easy mode_ **

“Omi, you.” Banri leans over his shoulder. “You’re _really_ into this cooking stuff, huh.”

Omi turns his head up to face Banri, sliced dough in one hand drooping dangerously near the edge. “Ah, welcome home! Didn’t hear you come in, sorry, sorry—” he gestures to the table with the spoon in his other hand. “—I’d make you something, but my hands are a bit full at the moment.”

“Nah, no worries,” Banri shakes his head. He looks back at the table: the surface is covered with cupcake tins and rolled dough and bowls of some various things that all smell—he’ll never admit it out loud— _amazing_. He casually juts his chin out at it all instead. “So… what’s all this?”

“Mince pies,” Omi replies, fingers twisting and laying a pattern of woven dough rope above a filled pie cup in the tin in front of him. “I was looking through some blogs, and this caught my eye.” He pats one last strand of dough into place and smiles up at Banri. “They’re an English pastry, but I saw some interesting ideas for fillings that would fit more to Japanese tastes—” He pauses to nestle a new pie crust into a waiting tin. “—so I wanted to try them out.” He reaches for another bowl to scoop its contents into the new pie crust. “There were also some cute pie top design ideas, so I wanted to try them.”

It’s then Banri notices the small cluster of pies off to the side. They’re still raw and unbaked, but Omi’s handicraft skills shine through: there’s the typical cutesy lattice shapes, some cutouts of stars and shapes, delicately twisted rope patterns, and—

“—oh my god, _triangles_.” It escapes Banri’s mouth before he can stop himself.

Omi just laughs. “Of course, I couldn’t forget about Misumi.”

“I think you could forget about that kinda stuff… well,” Banri pauses, thinking about the last time he saw him in the kitchen, with his terrifying insistence that the vegetables should be cut into triangles. “...Maybe yeah, guess you kinda can’t.”

“I also tried making a monster shape like Taichi’s favorite,” Omi motions to another pie, sheepishness creeping into the laughter in his voice. “But hmm, I guess some things convey better in color.”

“Yeah, Omi, you can definitely chill a little.” Banri cocks an eyebrow at it all, from the pale monster to the triangles to the one with small Kamekichis dotting the surface. “This is so much work, is it worth all this effort?” He rolls his own neck, straining at the thought. “Isn’t there like, an easier way to do all this quickly?”

Omi hums as he sits back down, reaching for a chunk of dough and a small knife. “I guess it might look like a lot of effort, but.” He starts tracing out a shape, fingers making quick work of the soft dough. “It’s fun, and I enjoy making things for the troupe members to enjoy.”

“A saint…”

“Hm? What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Do you want to try one?”

“Huh?”

Omi gestures to the tools in front of him with flour-covered hands. “Making a pie, I mean. It can be surprisingly fun, once you get the hang of it.” He hums, laying out a new tin with crusts and filling. “Ah, it might be a little hard at first, since the dough can get pretty sticky.”

Banri pulls out a chair and plops down next to him, rolling up his sleeves. “Hey, remember the time we remade all those Picaresque costumes in one night?”

“Hm? Yeah, but what’s this all of a sudden?”

Banri smirks as he reaches for a chunk of dough. “I’m good at _everything_ , don’t you know?”

Something about the childish glee underneath Banri’s usual cocky stance makes Omi laugh, and Banri starts in his seat, almost dropping the dough. “Right, right, sorry—I didn’t mean to imply you’d be bad at it.”

Banri relaxes and chuckles back. “Nah, I know, I know—you’re not like that.”

“Ah, but Banri,” Omi stops, turning to him with a serious look on his face.

“Y-yeah?”

“You should go wash your hands first.”

“Ah—” Banri drops the dough and the knife. “Right. Sorry.”

***

Later that night, the members all coo and aww over the pies—Banri watches Misumi lift his up to the light with his trademark triangle battle-cry, and even Sakyo cracks a smile at the one Omi hands him (later, and only quietly to himself in a corner after spending at least five minutes knitting his brows and hemming and hawwing about practice hours). Director gets a special curry-flavored one to her delight, and even Hisoka bothers to wake up to sniff at his marshmallow-topped pie, inhale it in one bite, and drift back to sleep still holding his plate.

As Omi watches everyone eat Banri settles next to him, sliding over a plate.

“For you,” he says, casual in his voice and slouchy posture— _you’d never be able to tell he was cursing at the pies a few hours ago,_ Omi thinks, except for the bits of flour still clumped around his nails.

“Thanks, Banri.” He looks around at the others. “You did a nice job, like with that crown on Muku’s.”

“Right?” He casually twists a lock of hair hanging in his face. “Told you I’m good at everything.”

“Yep, you are. They came out wonderfully.”

“Well,” he replies; he looks away at Taichi and Kazunari Instagram their pies, Homare stand with the telltale warning signs of his rising arms, Masumi wonder whether or not to eat his pie— _anywhere_ , so long as it’s away from Omi. ”I have to admit. It was fun.”

Omi looks down at his: it’s a little wolf head, with a cut at the bottom of its face. The smile is a little crooked. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. It’s always nice to have company while I cook.”

“Yeah.” Banri laughs, quietly. “Hey, uh, if you ever want help again—I’m pretty good at everything, and I might be free occasionally, so. Yeah.”

Omi chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

—————

 

**_loner_ **

“That’s quite the scuffle you got into.”

Omi sets down a plate in front of Juza, who manages a mumbled “thanks” from behind the iced towel. As he uses it to wipe the last of the blood from his face— _not his,_ he claims—his eyes finally land on the plate in front of him, and they quietly shine: it’s his favorite thing, dessert. As he grabs a fork and starts digging in to the multi-layered cake in front of him, Omi pulls out a chair and sits just opposite.

“How is it?”

He gets a mouthful of “gdd” in response, barely a breath long until he’s diving into the cake again. He gets up and brings another plate as Juza polishes off the last bite of that first slice, and Omi gets the faint feeling of feeding a (large) puppy as Juza’s eyes shine at him, again, as if he can’t believe his luck today.

“I made a few different cakes this time,” he explains, gesturing to the array behind him. “Director came home with some nice herbs the other day, and I wanted to try arranging them in cakes to go along with tea.” His eyes fly up and land on the kettle at the stove just then, steaming whistle ringing in time with his memory. “Right, right! I can’t believe I almost forgot about that.”

The puppy-eyes-look doesn’t fade from Juza as Omi returns with two steaming mugs, and Omi wonders, briefly, if this is what having siblings is like. _Or maybe even a pet?_ Though, perhaps that’s a bit rude to Juza. He chuckles to himself as he brings over a tray with the rest of the cakes and scones he’s prepared, and together they sit, eating in peace with the silence occasionally punctuated by the soft scrape of forks on plates.

Suddenly, Juza’s voice breaks the quiet.

“Omi-san,” Juza starts, then pauses—he looks down at his hands, his uncertainty hanging in the silence between them. One hand scratches at notches on the table near the bloodied towel, marks pressed into the wood from now-countless company dinners. They’re a lively bunch, and it shows on the table.

The other hand still clutches the fork, halfway in the cream of a particularly soft lavender chiffon cake. Omi nods at him, smiling, and patiently waits as Juza hurriedly takes another bite and uncharacteristically takes his time chewing, staring down at the flecks of herbs in the cream all the while. It takes a couple more bites until Juza finds his voice again, and Omi finds himself unconsciously leaning in to hear what he has to say.

“Does it ever get easier?”

“Hm?” Omi stills, and waits to see if Juza will elaborate.

Juza shifts in his seat. “Well, um. Omi-san, you.” He digs his fork in the cake again. “When we went shopping that one time, and those punks picked a fight, you…” He looks up at him, and Omi hopes his face is very very still, because Juza’s isn’t. “You didn’t.”

He looks up into the air and makes a show of remembering, staring up and away from Juza’s earnest eyes. “Ah, yeah, there was that one time… that was a surprise! I’m just glad Director wasn’t there, it could’ve gotten dangerous.”

Juza nods at him. “How’d you do it?”

Omi blinks. “Do what?”

“Not, uh.” He scratches at the table. “Fight. And not, not lose it.” The scratching starts digging deeper. “I know I’m supposed to hold it in, and not let some punks piss me off like that, but.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the room he shares with Banri—there’s a scratch on the door from last week when they butted heads over something, no one really remembers what, those scenes are so common now. “Does it ever get easier? Or Omi-san, are you just good at it?”

Omi _hmmms_ for a while, raising the mug of herb tea to his mouth to buy himself some time. What to say, really? It’s not like he doesn’t empathize, but really—

“—I don’t know if I really have an answer to that.”

It’s best to be honest, Omi decides, and as soon as the words tumble out he braces himself for the inevitable confusion Juza will face him with. Sure enough, when he looks up from his mug to Juza he meets a lost, and maybe a little disappointed, boy’s expression.

“Sorry,” Omi half-laughs, half-sighs. “It’s probably not the answer you were looking for. But to be honest with you, I don’t know if I’ve really found an answer myself.” He takes a spoon and stirs the mug, lifting the leaves that have settled at the bottom. “Maybe because it’s been a while since I ran away from that life, but I feel like I’ve managed to stay out of it by luck... or maybe we all just grew up over the years?”

“So… you’d say it’s something like time?” Juza swallows a bite of cake. “Is that what I need?”

Omi hums. “That could be it. Time, and practice.” He cuts another slice as Juza’s hands start moving again, finishing the slice of cake in front of him. “I think, Juza, that you’ve already got the most important thing, and the rest is just practice.”

“Hm?” Juza looks up at him again, spots of cream at the corner of his mouth and Omi reaches over to pass him a napkin.

“Well, it’s hard to put into words… but I think the fact that you want to change yourself is already a huge step.” Omi pours them both some more tea. “It’s hard to change yourself in the first place, but impossible if you don’t recognize that need. I think, that you knowing you shouldn’t respond to those guys provoking you is a sign you’ve already started to change.”

Juza nods, slowly, and Omi wonders if anything he’s saying is making sense.

“Sorry, I’m just talking a lot and not really offering anything concrete. I guess in the end it’s really up to the person, but.” Omi smiles at Juza. “I feel like I can believe in you.”

Juza looks down at his cake, struggling to balance the sliced fruits on top of the pile of cream and crust. “I don’t know if I have what it takes for you to believe in me like that, Omi-san.” He takes a bite again, and it’s slow and deliberate this time. “I just hope one day, I can walk along the streets and be like you, and not cause trouble.”

Omi taps a finger against his chin. “There is one thing that does help, now that I think about it.”

“Hm?” Juza’s head whips up so fast, a drop of cream falls from his fork onto the table.

“I remembered just now, actually.” Omi smiles at him. “It’s when I think of others. Like when Director was with me those months ago, and how you were there with me that time we went shopping.”

“Huh…”

“You guys remind me to be better.” He reaches out a hand to pat Juza on the head. “So really, I have you all to thank.”

 

—————

 

**_living the dream_ **

“Haaa…”

“Taichi? Is something wrong?”

“Omi-kun,” Taichi looks up at him, stretched out on the table. “How do you do it?”

“Do… what?”

Taichi waves his arms in a vague shape at Omi. “That. All of that.”

“…I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

Taichi bolts upright, chair screeching as he pushes it back to get up. He sniffs dramatically at the tray in Omi’s hands, whirling around as he sighs. “First of all, that cooking. It’s, it’s _amazing._ Everyone in this dorm can agree to that.” He spins back, clutching his hands to his chest, then springs to Omi’s side to run a finger down Omi’s arms. He even hides his face in his other hand, crouching slightly to the side as if acting the part of a meek schoolgirl. “And then there are those _muscles_ , and your abs, I’ve seen them, and not to mention your height?” He lays a dramatic hand across his forehead. “And! You’re also really good-looking, even I think so!” He waves a limp hand at Omi. “And to top it all off, just when you think things couldn’t get any more unfair, you’re.” Taichi sinks back into his chair, slumping back down onto the surface of the table. “You’re sooooo _nice_ , I can’t even be mad.”

“Um.” Omi gently sets the tray down on the table, and pulls out a chair to sit with Taichi. “What’s all this, all of a sudden?”

“Well.” Taichi scratches his head. “Y’know… just me being me, I guess. ‘I wanna be popular!’, and all that jazz.” The last bit ends in a mumble, uncharacteristically energy-less considering Taichi’s usual levels of constant excitement.

Omi unloads the tray, placing plates and cups in front of Taichi and himself. “Well, that definitely means there’s something else.” He pushes a set of utensils to Taichi, who meekly accepts it. “What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

“Um…”

Taichi looks at a loss, holding the fork and staring at it, and Omi half-sighs, half-chuckles. “Why don’t you eat, first? They’re pigs in a blanket, enjoy while it’s hot.”

* * *

“And then! Do you know what she said?”

Omi stays quiet but nods in response, encouraging Taichi to go on.

“She said Autumn Troupe was her favorite! And even her friend was all, ‘yeah, Autumn Troupe is really cool!’”

Omi keeps nodding, and dares to venture, “that sounds like a good thing... right?”

Taichi nods furiously, and the piece of sausage on his fork wobbles dangerously from the movement. “It is! It totally is! And I was super duper excited, because hey! I’m an Autumn Troupe member! In the flesh!”

“Ah, you were doing a Street ACT earlier, weren’t you?”

“Yeah!” He stuffs the rest of the pig in blanket into his mouth, mumbling-yelling through the bite. “That’s how we got to talking with the Autumn fan.” He swallows thickly and reaches for another one. “But then…!!”

“Then…?”

“I introduced myself, of course, as Nanao from Autumn Troupe! Oh, Tsumugi-san was there, and he introduced himself of course, yadda yadda yadda… And do you know what happened?”

Omi nods, encouraging him to go on.

“They—“ Taichi stops, drops his fork, and lets his head land with a _thunk_ on the table. “ _They didn’t recognize meeeee!_ ”

 _Ah._ He isn’t sure how to respond, so he settles for patting him on the shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting way, and refills his plate with the pigs in blankets with the biggest sausage pieces. As Taichi somehow manages to roll his head in anguish on the table, Omi cautiously tries to calm him. “Maybe… it was dark where you guys were? Or maybe the girls only saw you from far away, I mean, the stage makeup and costumes can really change a person.”

Taichi turns to look up at Omi, face still somehow stuck to the table. “They recognized you, though, Omi-kun.”

“Huh?” He runs through different times he and Taichi went out for a Street ACT, but he can’t remember an encounter like that. He’d remember something like that—especially considering Taichi would’ve made a scene. Just in case, he asks. “I… I wasn’t there, was I?”

“No, er.” Taichi turns away, burrowing his face into the table like he wants to hide in the thick wood. “They only believed I was an Autumn Troupe member when I showed them selfies we took together with the other members. And uh. They saw the one we took together.”

“Oh.”

“They’re real big fans of yours, Omi-kun. Your height, your coolness, your—“ Taichi weakly gestures at Omi again, “—general vibe, I guess. I mean, honestly, I can’t blame them, you’re super cool, Omi-kun.”

Omi runs a hand through his hair, trying to laugh, wanting to brighten the mood and hoping the awkward nervousness doesn’t convey. Mostly, he’s just embarrassed at Taichi’s straightforwardness. “They’re probably just talking about my roles,” he settles on, as an excuse. “I’m sure the more people see you on stage—or in Street ACTs, or at Mankai events in general—the more they’ll come to see your charms, Taichi.”

“My charms?” Taichi pouts and reaches for another pig. “Do I have any?”

Omi smiles and fills his cup again. “Of course you do. You have charms that are unique to you.”

“Like what?” Taichi doesn’t mean it as a challenge, Omi knows; he’s not the kind of kid who will test others, especially like this. But Omi can recognize a necessity to step up and offer answers when he sees it, so he reaches for his camera and flicks through a few photos.

“Ah, here’s one—Taichi, remember this?”

Taichi leans over to peer at the small display, then starts. “Oh! I do, I do, it was when Kazu-kun and I went to that skate park, I tried to teach him skateboarding.” He finally breaks into a familiar grin. “That was hilarious, Kazu-kun kept falling but he was _so_ dead set on getting good post material for his Insta!”

Omi smiles down at him. “I think this is a great charm point of yours—you’re always willing to have fun with others and share stuff you like. You took the time to teach Kazunari, and made sure he was having fun, too.”

Taichi laughs bashfully, scratching his head. “Aw, Omi-kun, do you really think so?” He looks back at the small photo. “I mean, I was having fun too, so it doesn’t really feel like I was doing a ‘Good thing’ or anything.”

Omi chuckles and continues flicking through the photos, landing on another one. “That’s another good point of yours, Taichi.” He gestures to the screen: it’s Taichi and Tasuku, with Tsuzuru, Muku, and Izumi joining them to prepare for an event. “You’re a natural mood-maker, and you naturally help others feel at ease and have fun.” Omi rubs his thumb along the edge of the camera, smiling at the bright, candid smiles in the image. “That’s something I definitely couldn’t do, so I respect that about you, Taichi.”

Taichi drops his fork. “Oh my god.” He starts waving his hands in front of him, and Omi thinks he can almost see the wagging tail behind him and panicked ears perking up over his head. “Omi-kun, you can’t just compliment me like that, I’ll. I’ll!” He turns pink. “Omi-kun, you respect something about—“ he points to himself, “—me?”

Omi smiles and nods. “I do! I depend on that mood-making ability and energetic nature of yours, and I’m fairly sure I’m not alone.” He nods his head in the direction of Autumn Troupe’s rooms. “I can’t imagine an Autumn Troupe without you there to balance us out, and I know the rest of Autumn Troupe feels the same.” He pats Taichi on the head. “So chin up, have more faith in yourself.”

“Omi-kuuuuun!!” Taichi latches onto his arm, and Omi can definitely see the dog ears and tail now. “You’re a saint!!”

 

—————

 

**_monologue in the rain_ **

“Fushimi, you’re still up?”

The question that reaches Omi isn’t so much a question as it is a statement, and he can clearly hear the tinge of admonishment in it—not that it’s a bad thing, after all it’s coming from Sakyo. They say people can get used to just about anything, and after almost a year in this company he’s gotten used to understanding the softness hidden behind his sharp words.

Sakyo is leaning against the kitchen doorway, loose clothes hanging off his thin frame as he looks at Omi: and somehow, despite being half a head taller than him Omi feels himself the small, shrinking child caught in an adult’s patrol.

“Ah… you caught me.” Omi laughs, not even bothering to excuse himself. “I was just thinking of having a hot drink or something. This kind of weather puts you in that mood, you know?” Omi looks toward the window, where fat raindrops hit the glass, and out of his peripheral vision he sees Sakyo follow his gaze.

The rain draws shapes against the glass as the water trails down, and as Sakyo doesn’t respond Omi turns back to look at him instead. He watches Sakyo’s eyes wander up and down the glass, following the trails of raindrops. What does he see through that glass—what shapes, what memories? Or maybe, he’s just watching the scenery.

Eventually Sakyo breaks away and half-nods, half-shrugs. “You’re right, it does make for a certain kind of mood.” He turns to Omi, fingers resting on his chin. “Fushimi, you’re twenty, right?”

“Er… yes?”

Sakyo starts to turn away. “Stay there. I’ve got something for this.”

“Ah,” Omi realizes. “Then I’ll make us some simple snacks.” He doesn’t think he imagines the slight smile on Sakyo’s face as he turns back to his room.

 

\---

 

“To be honest, Sakyo-san, I think this is wasted on me.” Omi gently sets the cup down—he can feel the warmth creep up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. “I don’t really know much about _nihonshu_ , but this is a very expensive-looking bottle.” The warm air, thick with the smell of freshly fried and toasted snacks, adds to the flush starting to develop in his cheeks.

Sakyo waves a thin hand in the air. “Got it from a job. Don’t worry about it.” He refills Omi’s cup. “And this silly thing called ‘taste’ only comes from experience, and experience has to start somewhere.” He nudges the cup back. “You can start here.”

He accepts the cup pushed back to him, and sips at it. “Sakyo-san, er…” He sets the cup down again. “I’m not sure how to say this, but.”

“Huh?” Sakyo snaps off a strip of the freshly-toasted _surume_. “Like I tell you in practice all the time, Fushimi, speak _up_.” He takes a sip from his own cup, emptying it easily. “And speak like you mean it.”

Omi laughs into his cup, hoping it hides his nervousness. “Well, speaking of practice—I guess I’m just a bit surprised at,” he pauses to gesture at the table between them, “—all this. You’re usually pretty strict about going to bed early for practice the next day.”

Sakyo has already refilled his cup and is mulling over its clear surface by the time Omi looks up at him. There’s that something again in his eyes Omi can’t place.

Sakyo doesn’t wait for him, either; the look quickly fades, and Omi starts questioning his own eyes. “Well, once in a while is fine.” He takes up a piece of fried sweet potato, examining the thin crust lightly overlaying the deep orange, then passing right through to study Omi just opposite him. “You’ve all worked hard this past month, and I’ve already told Director to let you guys have a break while the other troupes prepare.”

Omi watches him bite into the sweet potato; in the late-night silence he can almost hear the thin, crackling _crunch_ of the fried crust, sharp and bright under the low, thrumming bass of raindrops hitting the roof. He reaches to refill Sakyo’s cup. “The others will appreciate that. Have you told them yet?”

Sakyo shakes his head and reaches for the cup. “No, I just talked it over with Director earlier today.” He nonchalantly takes another piece of sweet potato. “Let them know tomorrow on their way out, will you, Fushimi?” He twists the toothpick between his fingertips, making a show of examining it.

“Sakyo-san,” Omi starts—he looks at Sakyo, then down at his own hands. His finger unconsciously starts to dig at one of the grooves on the table. “I’m not sure if this is my place to say, but.” He looks up, as Sakyo raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

“Doing what, Fushimi?”

Omi laughs nervously and runs a hand through his hair. “Well, there’s this, too, but for all the time I’ve known you to be at Mankai Company, you. You’re always playing the bad guy to motivate the others, aren’t you?”

Sakyo doesn’t respond, only raising his brows higher instead.

“Well, erm.” Omi’s hands move on to something else, fidgeting with a strand of torn _saki-ika_ between his thumb and forefinger. “Even though we know you’re doing so much for this company, and especially watching out for us in Autumn Troupe, you still tend to do, well,” He gestures between the two of them with the torn strand. “This.”

Sakyo takes another sip and sits back. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, Fushimi. Even if you say ‘this, this’, you’re not conveying what that is to your audience, in this case, _me_.”

“Sakyo-san,” Omi half-sighs, half-laughs—this time not bothering to try and hide the nervousness in his voice. “Just like that, you’re always strict with us—but in the best way, where you try to improve us.” He sets down the snacks, spreading his hands out flat on the table. “It’s very like you: to play the demon, or to be the designated bearer of bad news.” He looks up, in time to catch Sakyo’s gaze soften for a split-second, so short that if Omi didn’t know better he would’ve imagined it was a trick of the low light. Sure enough, it’s replaced immediately by cold detachment.

“You’ve got some funny ideas floating around in your head,” Sakyo replies casually, and Omi thinks he recognizes Capone’s cool ease in his voice and movements. “If you have time to think about that, think some more about practicing.”

“But,” Omi presses on, in the face of Sakyo’s act. “I think—I think it’s okay for you to be the one to give us good news, every now and then.” He reaches over to fill Sakyo’s cup. “It’s nice, you know, seeing them smile. You deserve that much.”

Sakyo sits still, wordlessly looking down at the newly-filled cup. Omi counts, in the silence, the number of times Sakyo’s eyes flick from the cup, to the Autumn Troupe dorms, to _him_ , and back to the cup until finally, Sakyo uncrosses a thin arm and picks it up. “We’ll see,” is all he says, before noiselessly sipping at it. Omi smiles, and raises his own cup to Sakyo.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoyed this, this was a lot of fun for me to write because I love Akigumi to pieces and have a soft spot for oniisans. Thank you for the fun prompt!


End file.
